Realization
by Magical Shovel
Summary: The realization is bitter, although it isn't noticed at the start. It is only until the long road of corruption is completed before the realization dawns upon him.   Series of one-shots that blend together.


**Disclaimer: **It's a shame I can't make any money from writing fan fiction. These characters aren't my own and I make no profit from this. All characters belong to SquareEnix. :c

**A/N: **Figured I would try something different by failing to include names. This is a series of oneshots that pertains to Braig and Xigbar.

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**Realization**

By the time his knees hit the cold tile, he realizes the familiarity of the scene. Not once, not quite twice, but at a frequent pace. His gaze wanders, lingering on his dark cloak. He never knew how fascinating an article of clothing can be. Finally, he lifts his head. Blue meets gold. Vanishing innocence meets corruption in its utmost form. Determination and mockery butt heads. He actually _laughs_. And oh, it sounds so heartless, but not quite hopeless. Confusion lingers on the younger face. A grin twists his features into something inhuman and almost pitiable. The sacred blade, the key to it all, rests tightly within the victor's grasp. A chuckle bubbled from the pit of his stomach, successfully sneaking out of his mouth. There is silence.

He never liked silence.

By the time he sees the blood dribble down his chin and maiming his frayed, crimson scarf, he is astonished. How could his opponent hit him? For him, it is incomprehensible. He calculates each and every move with relative ease. Too quick for weapons to grace his flesh, he snorts with bitterness. The kid is lucky. That's it. That's all it ever will be. Pure luck. Next time, he thinks, the little dud with the key blade won't be as lucky. For now, he creeps into the shadows like a wounded predator as he flees the scene. The deep cuts burn like a raging fire that cannot be quenched. He tears through the castle in a frantic mess. A tall, blond man with an icy interior catches him midway through his peculiar dance. Green eyes remain unreadable as a series of bandages conceal the damages done to his lithe body. He wants to say something witty, but cuts himself short. Nothing about this scene is funny.

It was funny.

He has good reason to label it as such. On second thought, he doesn't. These days, he finds a lot to be funny. Nicknames, for one. His companions either put on a ruse of annoyance or one of mock indifference. The ones that are prone to these false emotions are the ones that become subject to merciless pranks. It's harmless fun. The King turns a blind eye to the jester. The banter continues alongside the cleverly construed façade. The first time he calls a particular dreadlocked male 'Medusa' or 'Fuzz Face', powerful hands wrap around his neck. The first time he calls a wiry teen with a key blade, 'Tiger', there is silence. The first time he calls a passive musician 'Water Sprite', there is a smile and soft laughter. It's a satisfying experience. Each name suites each member in its own uncanny way. Even if the names are well despised, it amuses him to no end as he unveils their secrets and puts together the pieces.

At his prime, he is the nuisance of the castle, reminiscent of the class clown. He says the most moronic things, leaving his comrades stupefied. He has the unnatural habit of mentioning drowned goldfish. It rattles their nerves even if a smile creeps onto their faces. 'Hey, Munchkin', the sleek fellow calls out to a young child with blue hair and wide eyes. The youngest of apprentices steps forward, book in his nimble grasp. 'Yes?' He asks with the utmost form of patience. 'Could you put this apple on your head?' The child complies without another thought. 'Is this fine by your standards?' 'Crystal clear, Kiddo.' A gloved finger rests on the trigger. The guns are in the formation of a sniper rifle. Bullets in the guise of shards sail toward the lush, crimson fruit. It falls to the ground with a light thud, dividing it into six, equal pieces. 'Hungry?' He inquires with a triumphant smirk. The younger simply shakes his head, picking up each individual pieces. 'Six… One for reach of us.' Together, they head back to the castle. 'Well, how do you like them apples?' The dark-haired male laughs at his own witty comment.

Nothing is forever.

He sits at the top of the skyscraper with a regal atmosphere that practically engulfs him. Calm and laidback all at once. His legs dangle over the edge, peering at the ground that seems so far away. The neoshadows remind him of ants. A wolfish grin curls his lips. How small they look! It reminds him of a past that's oddly distant. A past where he stands at the top of his game, watching residents scurry below with profound amazement. Now and then, there are still ants. Ants devoid of human life and thought. They're mannequins, counterfeiting life. How wrong it is to be involved in this nonexistent life. He stops. He shakes the memory and sophisticated thoughts away until they're miles from his mind. His gloves become fascinating. He's second for a reason, but not for power. Second in terms of corruption. Second in terms of apathy, empathy, and excess. He realizes that two may be even, but it's not fantastic with its heavy dosage of blood and destruction.

Semi-destructive personality aside, the apprentice enjoys learning. He doesn't engross himself in books, though. Lectures, however, are a whole other story. The master of the castle is indeed wise. Intelligence sparkles in those amber hues. A hand makes loose gestures. His lips purse. Somehow, the apprentice doesn't understand, but he knows. He _realizes_ the words that come from the master's mouth. He watches with fascination as if it's the best thing in the world. It reminds him of childhood, before anything was maimed. He smiles, uncharacteristic of his wolfish grin. There are words that egg him on: "Beyond this world is another so unlike our own. Perhaps they are similar to some extent. Regardless, there paths that connect them all. Mind you, each world has its own heart." It's own heart. A heart. Heart… _How is that possible? _He wonders in the midst of his confusion. It is then that he begins his search for the prolific blade. It is then that he dives into excessive studies about the heart. It is then that corruption first enters his bloodstream.

It hurts.

No, it burns. Failure chastises him. _Of all the faces… All of them… Faces._ "'Course I look at her and see yours…" He moans as his back hits the cold ground with a sick thud. His eye rolls back as unconsciousness takes another victim. The graying male is not entirely unconscious, mind you. Thoughts and memories flow like a constant stream. He's desperate to shake him away, but his mind refuses to cooperate. The same applies to his body. Mission this. Mission that. Smiling faces. Pensive faces. Frowning faces. Laughter, both wicked and friendly. All of which he sees and hears. Something grows deeper within the shell of his heart. It's indescribable. It brings him a great deal of pain, none of which is physical. His clever ruse is broken. The feeling is regret.

He doesn't know how much a lie could hurt someone. Namely, himself. "What are you doing?" A shrill voice demands. He doesn't know. He shrugs, nonchalant as ever. He doesn't realize that the blond cared beneath his icy exterior. A tall, imposing male that he often calls "Muttonchops" happens to stop him in his track. Again, he shrugs. Fury lingers within those indigo colored hues. His corruption has gone too far. Apathetic as ever, he leaves the castle, leaving the other apprentices stunned in their tracks. He doesn't think that he's lying to himself, but he is. The gunman assumes that he will gain power by joining forces with the Keyblade Master. He doesn't know that the old coot is just egging him on. Like a puppet, he dances and dodges. The strings are tight, not meant to be severed. Even as gold tints his eyes, he continues to lie.

The realization is _always _bitter.

**End.**


End file.
